The Year Before Tomorrow
by OmenProphecy
Summary: Hermione was fighting the war all on her own, and she was losing. Aberforth Dumbledore definitely wasn't the worst partner to have, seeing as he sent her back to the beginning of the First Wizarding War in order to make things right. But with her unstable magic, what else will change? What if she has to keep doing it until she gets it right? (Time Travel, Eventual HGxSB)
1. Chapter One- The Future- Ritual

**_Chapter I- The Future- Ritual_**

If Hermione's little cousin had ever been wrong about anything, it was that fighting was fun. Hermione could have told him firsthand that no, it really, really wasn't anywhere close to _fun._

She'd heard before that obscure memories came out when one is in a lot of pain, or in a situation where they may die.

It certainly seemed to apply.

Hermione wanted to just fade out of consciousness, fade out of existence, for all she cared. Anything to make it stop would be just fine with her.

Her arm hurt, badly. Worse than anything Bellatrix was doing to her.

Bellatrix bent down and grabbed her hair, pulling Hermione up to her feet. The younger girl didn't struggle. Most of the fight was gone from her.

"Aww, you're no fun anymore," Bellatrix pouted, staring into Hermione's blood-covered face.

_Merlin, I just want a shower, _Hermione thought. It was hard to keep her mind focused.

It was a defense mechanism, she supposed. Think of anything but what you really have to.

Bellatrix pulled back on her head harshly, and Hermione's mouth opened in a silent scream. Then, suddenly, the maniac's knife was out and carving designs on her neck.

The pain was so intense that Hermione couldn't keep from thinking about it. How she'd gotten there. What she'd done. How long it had been.

Ron had gone first. Poor Ron Weasley, with the red hair that made it near impossible to win at hide-and-seek, one of her best friends, and the boy she'd been so close to dating. He was buried in some forest somewhere, with only a glittery stone to mark his grave.

Then it was her and Harry, on the run again. What should have been their seventh year at Hogwarts came and went. They turned eighteen, and everything went to shit.

Ginny died in her seventh year, and Harry couldn't wait any longer. Hermione wanted to warn Harry not to go, but who was she to look into his feverish, grieving eyes and tell him that he shouldn't end the war? That was how it would have sounded, to him. So they invaded Hogwarts, just the two of them, and watched as more lives were taken.

One death changed everything, and that was Draco Malfoy's. He died at Rabastan Lestrange's hands for betraying Voldemort. One thing that no one anticipated was that Draco would have been the Master of the Elder Wand, and Voldemort took action immediately, killing the new Master.

But she and Hermione hadn't known about that. Her best friend left in the world challenged Voldemort with vengeance blazing in his eyes, and died with an almost betrayed look in those same, now cold, emeralds.

With the loss of Harry Potter, right in front of their eyes, the side labelled "Light" surrendered within weeks. House after House bowed their heads and allowed Voldemort and his Death Eaters to rule over them.

When Voldemort wasn't called the Dark Lord, the people called him the Not-Man. The old names, You-Know-Who and He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, were used less and less until they vanished from conversation entirely.

They'd given up, and Hermione didn't blame them. But she never would, not while there was even a fraction of a chance.

Aberforth Dumbledore was quite possibly her only ally. They worked together to make a plan, and took tiny actions to help it along. The pair became quite skilled at killing and making it look like an accident.

The time came when a Death Eater fought back, and managed to sap her magic. Not all of it, but enough to leave her helpless and unable to finish the job. He beat and cursed Hermione until she was near dead, but she got away. Sleeping spells were incredibly taxing in that state, but she succeeded.

Getting home was possibly the hardest thing she'd ever tried to do.

Aberforth healed her with unusual care, and then demanded to know what had happened. "Perfect," he stated once she was done, a rare grin on his face.

Hermione waited patiently for him to explain.

"There's a ritual," Aberforth announced. "I hadn't wanted to use it before, but the circumstances are near-perfect as of now."

The young woman waved her hand in a "get on with it" gesture.

"I would have had to drain your magic, then use that and multiply it." Aberforth's eyes were shining. He was truly excited, truly happy, for the first time since the Surrender four years before. Hermione was reluctant to ruin it, but she had to point something out.

"But the magic isn't here to use," Hermione said.

Aberforth didn't stop smiling. "And that's good. The more magic you rip from a wizard, or a witch, the more damage there is, both physically and mentally. There's also the chance that you don't take all of it or you take more than just magic. It's very hard to pull off, especially with the more powerful."

Hermione's mind finally decided to be useful. "And because I have less than half of my magic left, it would be almost guaranteed to work, or, at least, not leave me a vegetable." Hermione shared his smile, starting to feel more confident in the ritual. "Wait- what would it end up being, after?"

He patted her hand. "It's called 'Thousand-fold', but that's not entirely accurate. It's only roughly a third of that."

The witch was speechless, for the first time in a long time.

"That's… a lot," Hermione finally said.

"If magic were a value, and yours was one hundred, we could estimate that your 'magic value' would be about thirteen-thousand, if we assume you have forty percent of your original."

That was another thing that Hermione hadn't guessed about Aberforth: he loved mathematics, and they were his favorite way of explaining things.

"Of course, we don't know any exact numbers, but we could assume that your magic would be, well, very, very advanced."

"What's the catch, besides possibly being mangled and insane? Why hasn't it been performed by Voldemort, at least?" Hermione bit her lip. Perhaps there was something in his tone, or in his expression, or just plain instinct, that told her something was missing here. Something vital. Something possibly deadly.

"It also requires having an intact soul. And copious amounts of the Object's blood. And pure intent. See?"

She nodded determinedly. Her mind was still pinging at her, but she put it down as paranoia and a lack of studying the ritual in question. Aberforth had never given her reason to doubt him, even if this was Blood Magic.

"Also, Hermione- the earlier we do this, the better. Your magic will already be trying to regenerate."

"Mm."

Aberforth went to retrieve the athame, then cut very deep into her arm.

The agony was blinding. When her vision cleared, Aberforth held up a cloth, hopefully clean, to use as a gag. This told her that more pain was coming. Hermione nodded her assent, and opened her mouth. The old man stuffed the cloth into it. It tasted like dust and salt, but Hermione didn't care. Nothing was worth being found here.

Words in languages that Hermione had never heard flowed from his lips. The pain grew exponentially worse with every breath, until she couldn't hear, either. It ramped up, higher and higher, until it reached its peak. At that moment, it began to fade, ebbing away.

She could hear again, and she could see. Hermione immediately wished that she couldn't.

Bellatrix Lestrange's eyes looked deep into her own, full of fierce glee and her trademark vicious sadism.

*|II8II|*

Aberforth was barely holding his own, Hermione saw. She desperately wished she could help him, but she was absolutely useless at the moment, even if her magic hadn't been gone.

But, watching this, Hermione felt her cause return to her. She would kick, scratch, and bite her way to freedom, for her and for the entire bloody Wizarding world.

There was the Cruciatus. It wasn't even close to the pain from the ritual, but it was still pure, undiluted agony. When she heard the sound of her own scream, she realized that the gag was gone.

She watched her partner-in-crime suffer under the same spell. He watched Bellatrix point her wand straight at Hermione's heart.

"Blue citrus goat dander!" Aberforth shouted.

Hermione felt a spot over her heart glow white-hot, and then she was gone, from consciousness and from that time.


	2. Chapter Two- Year I- Landing

_**Chapter Two- Year I- **Landing_

Hermione woke up in the same room, the only difference being that it was empty now. She sat up groggily, feeling a terrible ache all over her body. Her arm looked violently bloodied, but there wasn't a wound beneath it. Odd.

Something seemed very off, especially when she stood. Hermione stumbled at first. Her balance was all wrong.

As Hermione held onto the wall for dear life, her mind became vaguely aware of an enormous amount of noise echoing up a hallway from downstairs.

What? That wasn't right.

Hermione opened the door carefully and stepped out into the hall. The color of the walls caught her attention. They were a sandy brown. Why would Aberforth change it from the lovely blue color it had been before she'd fallen asleep?

No, she remembered finally. It hadn't been sleep. She should be dead.

Where was Aberforth? They would kill him for saving her. How had he done it, anyway? What was the significance of those odd, random words her friend had shouted at her? And the hot glow over her chest- what was that?

Her brain started working properly, then. Of course Aberforth was dead, and the Death Eaters were probably going through the Hog's Head's stores of food and drink.

She'd been an idiot to step outside.

Why would they keep her alive, then, unmonitored, unchained, and _healed?_

She needed to get away. She needed answers.

Footsteps creaked on the stairs, and Hermione panicked, ducking back inside and closing the door much louder than she'd meant to.

"Knew the old man had to be getting some. Just didn't think he'd go so young," and unfamiliar voice slurred.

What did he mean, "so young"? Hermione was nearly twenty-one, and she knew for a fact that she looked even older.

A truly horrid thought wormed its way into her brain. Shivering, Hermione went to look for a mirror.

There was supposed to be one in Aberforth's bedroom, but it wasn't there. She found one in the bathroom and promptly felt her legs turn to gelatin. Hermione felt dizzy, and sat back on her heels. One hand was on the floor to steady her, and the other poked and prodded her face to see if it was real.

It was. Oh, Merlin, it was.

Her eyes teared up suddenly. The intensity of the emotions swirling around inside of her surprised her.

Hermione looked so... _young._ Sixteen years old, in fact. The war hadn't really opened its arms to her fully at that time, and it showed. The only thing missing was the optimism she'd always carried in her eyes.

Who could have guessed that seeing her younger self again would bring back these memories?

A mourning Harry.

A jealous Ron. A jealous Hermione, for that matter.

Snape was DADA teacher, only one short year away from becoming Headmaster.

Dumbledore, crumpled below the Astronomy Tower, the tallest tower in Hogwarts. If Snape's Avada Kedavra hadn't killed him, the fall would have.

Death Eaters invading Hogwarts, for the first time but not the last.

The tiny bit of hurt she'd cradled in her heart when Harry wouldn't tell her about the missions he and Dumbledore had gone on- especially the night Death Eaters came through the Vanishing Cabinet. That hurt had faded by the next year, when Harry told her anything and everything he could remember.

A question hit her hard, and caused her to let out a sob that she quickly muffled.

What if she'd truly gone back to when she was sixteen? Before the war had spiraled out of control and everything turned grey and hopeless?

When Harry, Ron, Ginny, and Dumbledore were still alive?

DUMBLEDORE!

Hermione was at the window in a flash, beginning to get the hang of her new center of balance. There were people outside- laughing! Playing!

The girl crept downstairs, still wary of notice, if nothing else.

There was Aberforth, serving drinks at the counter. There were customers, none of which she recognized. No one looked her way.

With a bright grin and a renewed sense of vigor, Hermione wiped all traces of despair off of her cheeks and stepped outside.

After standing in the crisp air for a moment, just looking, Hermione realized several things. The first was that Madame Puddifoot's was gone. Instead, there was a small café called Harry's. Her eyebrows furrowed. During her time at Hogwarts, they definitely would have noticed if a building had appeared bearing Harry's name.

The second was that a buxom blonde was currently dragging a shady-looking young man out of the Three Broomsticks. Her features were remarkably similar to Madame Rosmerta's, but, well, younger. Hermione wondered if Madame Rosmerta had had a daughter that Hermione had never known about. The woman was old enough, Hermione supposed, but it didn't make much sense. Then again, Hermione had never gone to Hogsmeade during the summer. Perhaps the significantly younger relative only visited in the summer months.

The third was that she recognized no one. Normally there was at least one person that Hermione knew, but this was not the case. She was on her own, at least until she found Harry or Ron.

How would she explain the tears that would inevitably appear once she saw them?

Oh, well. What would happen, would happen. It wasn't as if they were particularly observant, anyhow. If she hid it well, they would never notice.

Hermione only realized that she'd been standing in the threshold of the Hog's Head for a good five minutes when a man covered in bandages swung the door open and left, crashing heavily into her in the process.

Her wand was out and ready to fire in the fraction of a second it took for her to realize that this was neither the time nor the place.

Frowning sheepishly at no one, Hermione put her wand away. She moved away from the door, looking around for somewhere to go.

Hogwarts? Why not! Anything was possible!

She had to keep herself from skipping up the long path to the castle.

A chilly wind picked up. It was awfully cold for July.

Perhaps Hermione should have taken this as an omen, she reflected later. She should have decided that there were Dementors surrounding the place. Hell, she should have decided that the castle itself had frozen, along with its inhabitants. She should have turned tail and run, find somewhere else to be, just not involve herself in the war this time around.

She should not have gone up to the gate. Definitely not that.

Yet, she did.

When she caught sight of the heavy, iron, and likely enchanted chains wrapping around the gate, Hermione took a risk by sending a messenger Patronus through the bars, asking for entrance. Professor Albus Dumbledore himself came to meet her within a few minutes.

Dumbledore didn't immediately recognize her as Hermione had expected him to. Instead, they spent a few moments eyeing each other.

"Professor? Are you all right?" Hermione finally asked, frowning.

The old man- he certainly didn't seem as old as she remembered- smiled beneficently. "I don't believe you're enrolled here," he said easily.

Hermione was confused. "Sir? What do you mean?"

"I mean that I haven't seen you here before, or at all, which is certainly odd, considering that you seem to know me." All of this was in the same tone Hermione remembered clearly from the last time she'd spoken to her Headmaster.

"Professor? What's today's date?" Hermione's voice rose an octave.

"June 9, 1976," Dumbledore replied with a sympathetic smile. "I suppose this comes as a surprise."

He was both right and wrong. It wasn't what she had expected, but, no, it wasn't a surprise. Too many things hadn't matched up to the information that Hermione knew she hadn't forgotten.

"Thank you, sir. You wouldn't know me, then." She extended her hand. "My name is Hermione Granger, and I seem to need schooling."

Dumbledore chuckled, clasped her hand, and shook it. "Very nice to meet you, Miss Granger. I'll see what I can do."

*|II8II|*

It was July 31st when she was finally allowed into the castle. Hermione had been staying in the Hog's Head. Aberforth and she had come to an agreement: Hermione could stay in a room upstairs if she worked as a maid and bartender. This involved cleaning the dishes, which Hermione was more than happy to do, and simply making sure that the glasses were clean brought quite a bit of business to the pub.

Aberforth began paying her. Not much, of course, only a few sickles every day or so, but Hermione was content.

"Mr. Dumbledore? I'm going to Hogwarts tomorrow, so I won't need the room."

"I see."

"I can still come down here and work, if you want."

"Hmm."

"Thank you, sir."

It was strange, calling her best friend "sir". But familiarity with a man five times her age was not a good idea, especially since this Aberforth didn't know her.

Hermione smiled winningly at one of their regulars. He ordered another Butterbeer, returning her smile.

Living in her mother's era was almost natural. She and her mother had been very close before Hermione had gone to Hogwarts. Jean Granger had been Hermione's only friend growing up, and they told each other everything.

After magic came into Hermione's life, it became very clear that she couldn't tell her mother everything anymore. There were people who Jean would never understand, actions that she could never understand, and consequences that she couldn't even begin to comprehend.

Hermione kept up the chatter for the first few years, but eventually ran out of things to say. Vacations were spent in awkward silence, and Hermione was miserable. She couldn't help but feel as if she'd lost them.

Erasing their memories only finished the job. She might as well have killed them. She felt just as guilty as if she had.

Still, Hermione could clearly remember Jean telling her about the older woman's adolescence. The waitress job she'd taken was low-pay and low-dignity, but she did it to pay her way through dental school. The woman had told her daughter everything about the bands, the fashions, the people, the government, the mind frame.

The brooding time-traveler couldn't help but wonder how much of the past had been revealed to cover up the present. Hermione didn't know much about either of her parents after her own birth.

"Another Firewhiskey, love!" called a man near the front of the room. Hermione popped the cork out of a new bottle of Ogden's finest and poured it into a spotless glass.

"Come and get it! You'd better pay for this one, Kendall! And that last bottle, I saw you take it when Aberforth was in the back." Hermione held out her hand, a stern look on her face.

With a grumble, Kendall Castor plopped five Galleons and three sickles into her hand. Hermione placed the coins in a drawer, slid the glass across the counter, and grinned widely at the man. He scowled at her, and she waved at him before he waddled unsteadily back to his table.

She liked this job quite a bit, despite the low pay. In only five weeks, the patrons came to respect and like her enough to pay her without argument and to, sometimes, flirt with her. She flirted back, of course, but never let them go any further than witty comments and sly winks.

It was late. Aberforth was banging things down in the cellar, nothing too frantic, or she would have worried.

There were more customers, and they were loud. Hermione smiled fondly at the room of people. Even little Mundungus Fletcher, a man she'd despised back when he was alive the first time, was under the umbrella of her affection.

Mundy was in the center of the room, completely pissed, bragging about nothing in particular to a group of equally-smashed wizards. Most of them were older than him.

Hermione wasn't even close to tired, but Aberforth came in and took over, shooing her to bed. "My brother isn't the most courteous man when it comes to privacy, so you'll need your sleep. You're a fairly decent Occlumens, you should be all right."

"Thank you, sir," Hermione said, then trudged up the stairs and into her room, refusing to light the candles around the room.

She slipped into her sweatpants, nearly stumbling on them. It was much too dark to be standing on one leg, bent over at the waist, and occupying her hands with slipping the band at the bottom of the pant legs over her ankle. As anyone could have predicted, she toppled over, snagging the curtain on the way down. Moonlight streamed into the room.

Hermione gave an irritated flick of her wand at the mass of material on the ground.

Nothing happened.

"Reparo," she said out loud, waving her wand.

Still nothing.

She struggled her way into her sweatpants, still laying on the floor. Hermione got up, gave an angry kick in the curtain's general direction, then threw herself onto her bed.

Hermione groaned. Her magic hadn't worked at all since she'd cast the Patronus at the Hogwarts gate on her first day in the past.

The brightest witch of her age actually had a theory explaining why that had worked while the smaller, much easier spells didn't. One thing she'd noticed about magic was that it would sooner drain itself on one giant spell than dozens of simpler ones. Hermione's magic hadn't yet regained the ability to restore on its own, so the tiny amount of magic she'd come to the past with was gone.

Really, though, she'd hoped some would come back to her before she'd be attending a school for _magic_.

Hermione buried her face into her pillow. She was tired, and worried, and not at all up to the task before her.

*|II8II|*

"What are your impressions of your new professors?" Dumbledore asked casually. Hermione smiled slightly. She knew that he was subtly asking, "Which of them have you met in your time?"

"Professor McGonagall seems very much like she could be my favorite teacher." The girl waved her hand vaguely. "Professors Slughorn, Sinistra, Vector, Sprout, and Flitwick are also very agreeable, with Professor Slughorn being slightly less so."

Dumbledore nodded, his question answered.

Well, questions. Hermione had been answering them practically from the moment she stepped into the castle, about two-and-a-half hours ago.

The silence indicated that the Headmaster was satisfied.

"Let's get you Sorted, then," Dumbledore declared.

Hermione followed the old man to his office. She looked around thoughtfully. She'd only very rarely visited the Headmaster's office in her time, but it didn't seem to have changed much.

The time-traveler placed the Sorting Hat on her head, leaning against the desk.

**Hello, Hat.**

_Hello, Hermione. You've grown a bit, now, haven't you?_

**Mm. Enough to put me in a different House?**

_No, no, not yet. Perhaps soon._

**What in Merlin's name do you mean by that?**

_You'll know when the time comes. But, for now, you belong in **GRYFFINDOR!**_

Hermione pulled the Hat off of her head, resisting the urge to throw it.

Dumbledore's face pulled into a wide grin, causing all sorts of wrinkles to appear where there had been none before. "It seems that Professor McGonagall is your Head of House. Lucky, eh?"

"Yeah," Hermione muttered irritatedly. "Lucky."

*|II8II|*

"This," Minerva McGonagall announced, "is the Fat Lady, the portrait leading to the Gryffindor Common Room. Just say the week's password to her, and you will be granted access. The password is 'Mint Flower'. Questions?"

Hermione shook her head. Her posture was straight and stiff, partly because, well, it was Professor McGonagall, and partly because this woman had died violently in the Eighteenth Battle of Diagon Alley. Hermione herself had been there, trying to heal her in any way possible, but she hadn't known nearly enough.

Minerva's death had caused her to lock herself in the Hogwarts Library for days on end, refusing food and getting very little sleep. When Pomona Sprout finally convinced her to come out, she was near death herself.

When anyone asked her what she was researching in there, she would reply, "Healing," and they would leave her alone. It wasn't a lie; it just wasn't the whole truth.

Hermione had been researching Healing spells and potions, yes, but also the Dark Arts, from offensive magic to blood wards.

She couldn't tell anyone the whole truth, because she was what was left of the Golden Trio. She had to be golden and pure and righteous. She had to be worthy of being the leader of the Light Side.

"Mint Flower," Hermione stated confidently, and the portrait swung open. She became aware that the Fat Lady had been talking to her, and she felt slightly guilty for ignoring her.

Minerva walked with her into the Common Room. "That staircase is for the boys' dormitories, and that one is for the girls'. I strongly suggest you go and stake your claim on a bed before the others get here tomorrow."

Hermione smiled at her old sister-in-arms. "Thank you, Professor. I'm sure I'll be just fine up here."

The Gryffindor Head of House took the hint and left. The Portrait swung closed behind her.

Brown eyes surveyed the room. It wasn't too much different, aesthetically. There were still those same armchairs by the same fireplace. The red and gold still welcomed her, warm and inviting. Everything was quite a bit less shabby, which didn't surprise her. Twenty-odd years does take quite the toll on furniture.

Despite the familiar appearance, Hermione felt uncomfortable here. It _felt_ wrong. The last time she'd seen this room had been during the final major Hogwarts skirmish. The room had been blown apart. People had died here.

Even before the war was in full swing, the room was never a happy place. It was a dangerous one, full of people, any of whom could be a traitor.

Traitors. Ah, them. The silly men and women of Hermione's generation thought that no _Gryffindor _could _possibly_ turn traitor.

Trust no one during a war.

Seamus Finnigan died here, at the hands of his best friend.

Tears blurred Hermione's vision, and she turned and left. She couldn't deal with this now.

*|II8II|*

The library was a sanctuary for Hermione, always had been. As anyone who knew her could have guessed, that was where she headed when she was troubled or upset. She practically lived there, from the time she could read.

Madame Pince was still on Holiday, Hermione had found out. She would arrive the next day just before the Feast.

Hermione was completely, totally unsupervised.

A stack of books piled so high next to her on the table that it more than obscured her head. It was a miracle the damned things hadn't toppled over yet.

_The Theories of Time and Space _was open before the bushy-haired young woman. Her eyes flew over the lines and lines of small print, a frown marring her face.

It wasn't being very helpful, being mainly about Time-Turners and laws she already knew. Hermione hadn't expected it would apply, though. Her case was definitely a strange one, and she didn't know if any number of outdated, dusty tomes would help her.

Still, she kept reading.

_Oops, I'm In the Past. Fates' Plans. The Laws of Time._

Nothing worked.

Sunlight filtered in through the window. Hermione realized suddenly that she was beyond "tired" and into "zombie". Replacing the books exactly where she'd found them, Hermione stumbled her way to the Common Room. She collapsed onto a couch and immediately was dead to the world.


End file.
